The Lion and the Wolf
by blackdragonsghost
Summary: The Winchester brothers spend most of their time hunting monsters, but on their off days, they hunt something a little more entertaining... Very, VERY dark. I am not kidding here. Wincest, graphic violence, serial killer!AU. Slash, incest, and some very messed up boys doing some very messed up things.


_Author's Note: OH MY GOD why did I write this? No, seriously, why? I promised Wincest a while back, and I was writing this other fic that was much more wholesome and loving and emotionally balanced... then 'The Lion and the Wolf' by Thrice came on my ITunes, and my muse was like 'fuck it - this fluff is bullshit, let's have some nice serial killer boys!'. And I was like, 'no, that's not a good idea, stop that', but yet here we are. I blame this on the AO3 SPN community, because they write kinky fucked-up things that are so insanely hot they make you want to write more of them. I think that's also the reason for the second-person POV, because I have literally never written that before and yet it just started flowing. Also, blame Sparxflame for writing too many delicious Boy King!Sam ficlets and making me be obsessed with blood-covered-and-completely-psychopathic Sammy. _

_**WARNINGS (PLEASE READ THESE, PEOPLE!)**__: Slash, incest, murder, death of an OFC, kind of graphic stuff, BUCKETS O' BLOOD, Dean's extremely fucked-up internal monologue, generally disturbing imagery and dialogue, and the Winchesters being monster-hunters by day and people-hunters by night. Basically I took a Wincest PWP and stuck it in the first two minutes of a Criminal Minds episode. Be very afraid. Everything between Sam and Dean is one-hundred-percent enthusiastically consensual, though, so there's that. _

_Disclaimer: HOO BOY. I do NOT own Supernatural. By now I think that's probably a good thing, as it's rapidly becoming clear I should not be in charge of coming up with plots for things involving pretty men who are most definitely brothers and may or may not be fucking. _

_A.N.2: In other news, I do in fact have updates lined up for the Coldfire Trilogy fandom as well. In fact, I have a Gannon/Gerald fic set in the same 'verse as Cartouche, an update for Land of the Flame, and a fresh chapter of New Era of Vengeance - but I'm not quite happy with any of them, and they need polishing and love. So, I am posting these tonight - Jesus, make that this morning - and shall endeavour to post the rest this evening._

_A.N.3: So, naturally, this is another songfic. This time, to 'The Lion and the Wolf' by Thrice. I dare you to listen to that song and not think that you're listening to the soundtrack from a Wincest-y serial killer!AU. Seriously. There's even a vid of a similar concept on Youtube, using that song and actual clips from the show!_

_**TO MY DEAR FRIEND HOBGOBLIN**__: OH GOD I DO NOT KNOW WHY BUT MY BRAIN IS BROKEN. I apologize in advance for what you are about to read. Not only is it absolutely Goddamn filthy, but it's probably the most emotionally disturbing piece I've ever written. I will SO not blame you if you skip reading this one, darling, it might squick you to Kingdom Come. Possibly. I'm not sure how sensitive you are to this shit. If you happen to brave this nightmare, though, perhaps you could try and figure out why the hell my SPN fic is suddenly darker than my Coldfire fic? Like, seriously, which of these is canonically closer to being a horror series? Why is THIS fandom the one that's so much darker half the time? _

...

...

_**The lion's outside of your door,**_

_**The wolf's in your bed...**_

Her name's Christine. She's young, beautiful; shoulder-length chestnut hair, bright hazel eyes filled with laughter, a smile warm as the sun. You found her at the local bar, surrounded by a group of her twittering, gossiping friends, a shining spark of pure vitality through the smoky haze that hung over the room. You took a seat at the bar instead of moving toward her table; you didn't want to draw attention to yourself, and you didn't have to - she saw you minutes after you ordered a whiskey, her eyes growing brighter still, sparkling with interest and attraction through the dim, flickering light.

She excused herself from her friends, who erupted into giggling and salacious comments as she blushed and made her way over to where you sat at the bar. You welcomed her with a grin, lifting your drink and toasting her beautiful smile; she blushed harder, and settled in on the stool next to yours, introducing herself with a shy smile and a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You can't help but be amused. She thinks she's doing something brave; really, she's being incredibly foolish. She thinks she's a graceful swan courting her mate, but she's just a slim little deer too innocent to know better, walking straight into the jaws of a predator.

_**The lion's claws are sharpened for war**_

_**The wolf's teeth are red...**_

You can feel eyes on you from across the bar: Sammy, lurking in the shadows near the door. Watching. Always watching. His eyes on you feel like a physical touch, all heat and weight and intimacy where they caress your skin. You smile at Christine - sweet, innocent, naive little Christine - and reach out to touch her wrist, fighting down a shiver of anticipation as you feel Sam's gaze turn even heavier.

Hungrier.

Licking your lips, you hear Christine say something about her friends. Taking the pretense of looking at her friends as an opportunity, you shoot a glance toward the door, to the shadowy booth where Sammy's made himself a den; you catch the glitter of his eyes in the dark, quick and cat-bright, and he nods ever so slightly.

Looks like you've got a winner.

_**And what a monstrous sight he makes,**_

_**Mocking man's best friend...**_

You play nice with Christine, chat her up smooth, feed her all your best lines about the stars in her eyes and the sunlight in her smile. She drinks it all in, eating up your praise with a blush and a simper, basking in the attention you shower on her like it's all she's ever wanted. It's easy; you spend your days as an FBI agent, or a health inspector, or a traveling reporter, slipping in and out of skins with the grace of a snake - sliding into the skin of a charming stranger just looking for a good time feels perfectly natural. You've played this role so many times, it almost feels like coming home.

Finally, Christine's friends pack and up leave, a few winking at her or even shooting her a thumbs-up on the way out the door. You wait a little longer, until you're sure they're all gone, for long enough that when the police ask later they won't know if she left with you or not - not that it matters anyway, since you and Sammy are already wanted in a half-dozen states, some of it for hunting and some of it for this... It's an old habit, though, and it buys some time for you to get to the next town before the cops catch on. You're not sure you would care that much if you were on your own, but there's nothing Sammy hates more than the thought of jail time; werewolves and ghouls and demons Sam can handle, but cold iron bars would be too much for the wildness in his soul, and it's your job to make sure he never has to face that. So, you wait. Then, the next time she runs out of things to say about her mundane, inconsequential job and her mundane, inconsequential life, you ask her if she wants to go somewhere a little more private.

The smile she gives you is so sweet that you could almost feel bad for what's going to happen once you leave here - except that it's got nothing on the sweetness of the hungry gleam in Sammy's eyes when he looks at you covered in blood and holding a knife, so it's okay.

By the end of the night, you'll be finding out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

_**When both the wolf and lion crave **_

_**The same thing in the end...**_

You drive her back to her house, a neat, cookie-cutter little place in a quiet suburb near the edge of town. She fumbles with the key at the front door, pink-cheeked and tipsy, more drunk on lust than she is on the alcohol. You've been touching her since you left the bar, a hand on her waist, smoothing back her hand, letting your fingers _accidentally_ graze her thigh, trailing your hands over her skin when you helped her out of the car... She's strung out on the anticipation, now, giddy with what she thinks is about to happen - and, to be fair, she's not wrong. You are going to fuck her. She's just wrong when she thinks that's all that's going on.

She lives alone, so once the door is shut behind you, all bets are off. You still have to hold back a little, though; don't want to scare her off, and besides, given what you're going to do to her later it's only fair you make sure she has a good time now. So, you don't slam her into the wall as hard as you want, just enough to make her pulse kick up; you kiss her deep but keep it slow, a thorough, implacable conquest that leaves her gasping through slick lips and staring up at you with pleasure-glazed eyes. You wrap your hands around her curvy hips, haul her up against your body until she gasps and shrieks with delight as her feet leave the floor, and carry her bodily upstairs to the bedroom.

You might as well show off while you can. You might be stronger than any woman out there, but you've still got nothing on Sam, and later tonight you're going to be the one shoved down on the bed and pinned like a captured animal.

You get Christine and yourself undressed, then set about showing her the time of her life. She mewls so pretty for you when you lavish attention on her breasts, suckling at the coral pink of her nipples until she's crying out and writhing underneath you; the sounds she makes when you find her clit with agile, gun-calloused fingers are even better. She's so soft under you, delicate and helpless, whimpering and pleading and shrieking in pleasure when you fuck her, hard and relentless against her yielding fragility. Afterward, she kisses you sweet and light, purring compliments and praise and asking you to stay the night. You echo the sentiments, a hollow reflection of her passion until she falls asleep; then, you wait a while, heart racing in anticipation. The sex with Christine was good...

But it's only a shadow of what's coming next. The first act, when there's still a glorious climax to come, the rest of the play still ahead.

_**The lion's outside of your door**_

_**The wolf's in your bed...**_

An hour later, when Christine's well and truly asleep, you slip out of bed. You pull your jeans back on for the hell of it, not bothering with boxers or even a belt, certainly not a shirt; it's not like your clothes are going to be staying on for long, anyway. You slip downstairs, soundless in the darkened house, and open the front door.

The garden in front of the house is drenched in moonlight, wild and fantastic in its dancing blend of white fire and black shadows; a moment after you step out onto the porch, though, a darker shadow than the rest detaches itself from the little grove of ornamental cherry trees near the front walk and heads toward you. You stand, shivering in anticipation, throat dry and palms sweaty as you wait.

You're not a small man by any means, but Sammy looms over you, big and dark and terrifying for anyone else but just deliciously tempting to you. His massive hands settle on your biceps, gripping tight and pulling you in close as he bends down to murmur right against your lips,

"Enjoy yourself, Dean?"

You laugh low in your throat, hands instinctively lifting to clutch his waist as you whisper hoarsely, "Not bad. Saved the best part for you, though, Sammy - just like always. She's asleep upstairs... wanna have some fun?"

_**The wolf, he howls**_

_**The lion does roar**_

_**The wolf lets him in...**_

The second you're in the door, Sam has you up against the wall. He pushes you there more gently than usual, not wanting to make too much noise and wake Christine; the minute you're pinned, though, his hands go hard as steel bands and tight as a vice, and his mouth is over yours. Sammy kisses like no one else you've ever had, all fire and blood and hunger; he bites your lips savagely until they part on reflex, then he's in, tongue slicking deep into your mouth and lapping around like he's trying to lick all the traces of Christine away.

His left hand is still gripping your waist with bruising force and holding you pinned against the wall, but his right comes up to settle around your throat, not quite choking but still constricting as it fits like a collar around your neck. You whimper a little, shaken and lost, tilting your head back to bare your throat for him as you lose yourself in the kiss. Everything is Sam, your little brother and the center of your world, the focus of your everything as all your senses narrow down to _Sam, Sam, Sammy_. He's all you really want, all you'll ever need in the world - Sam and his love and the thrill of the hunt, but even the last one isn't as crucial as Sam is. If you lost the hunt you would be less than you are right now - but if you lost Sam, you wouldn't be at all. You'd be gone, so much dust in the wind, all your self and your love and your soul wrapped up in this beautiful, savage creature currently trying to devour you from the inside out.

Finally, Sam lets you up for air, pulling back and leaving your skin cold but your blood boiling as he licks his lips and grins, all foxy eyes and dangerous smile as he purrs, "Yeah. Let's go have some fun, Dean."

_**The lion runs in through the door**_

_**The real fun begins...**_

Sammy moves like a cat, all silent grace and frightening speed, so Christine's still asleep when you step back into the bedroom. She jolts awake, though, at the sound of the lock clicking shut. She pushes herself up on one arm, yawning, dragging the messy tumble of her hair back from her face as she looks around blearily.

"Dean-? OH!"

She starts to cry out, but the sound never makes it out of her mouth, thanks to your hand clamping like an iron band across her mouth. She stares up at you, paralyzed in sudden terror as you smile at her, nodding to the even more imposing man standing next to you.

"This is my little brother Sammy, Christine. See, we had such a nice time earlier, I thought it would too rude not to share, you know? So, Sammy here's gonna get to know you a little better, 'kay honey?"

There's sheer terror in her eyes; she knows something's horribly wrong here, even if she doesn't know what, and you can't help but marvel at the design of human survival instinct. It can kick in so strong... but so often, too late.

In a few moments, with the help of a few items you tucked into your pockets before heading to the bar earlier, you've got her cuffed and gagged. You drag her off the bed and throw her on the ground at Sammy's feet, smiling up into his ravenous eyes as Christine wriggles and whimpers pathetically at his feet. "She's all yours, Sammy."

Sam's expression is one of pure, feral pleasure as he draws a knife and crouches down over the thrashing, terrified girl. Smirking, shivering with the anticipation of watching Sam's truly artful work, you lean against the footboard of the bed and prepare for the show.

_**As they both rush upon you and **_

_**Rip open your flesh...**_

You know how much the kill makes Sammy's blood run hot, so you aren't surprised in the slightest when he turns to you some time later, teeth stained red and eyes glittering like kaleidoscopes as he growled out a single, commanding "_Dean_." Before your name's even finished reverberating in the air you're moving forward, shucking off your jeans again and sinking to your knees on the bed, bending forward and spreading your legs without even bothering to try and hide how your cock's rock-hard and dripping with want.

"C'mon, Sammy. Whatever you need."

He's on you in a heartbeat, huge hands gripping your hips like a vice as his body weight looms over you, caging you in against the bed. You shudder, hard, back bowing as you cant your hips further up in a wordless plea; Sam laughs against the back of your neck, breath hot and lips sticky with blood as he rasps, "Such a fuckin' whore, Dean, God - pretty girls just throwin' themselves at you but it isn't enough, is it, sweetheart? Want me to fuck you, Dean? Want me to fill you up with my nice big cock?"

"Sammy, God!" you choke out, feeling the heat of his words settle deep into your gut, need clenching around your throat like a constricting hand. "Yeah, come on little brother, give it to me - need you so bad, come on Sammy, show me what you got-"

You all but scream when Sam thrusts in without warning, no prep at all, just the slickness of Christine's blood all over both your skins to ease the way. It burns like hellfire, Sam's cock huge and hard and merciless as it splits you open - and you know you're a sick and twisted creature for even thinking it, but _damn_ it feels good. Sam's bent right over you now, every inch of your bodies pressed together so that you can feel every ripple and surge of his mouth-watering muscles, feel the coil and spring as he fucks you through the mattress. It's _glorious_, the force he puts into every thrust, the bruising grip of his hands and the messy bites he scatters across your throat, even the feral growls he looses against your ear as he pounds into you.

You know you're destined for Hell, but this right here is your own personal Heaven.

_**The lion eats his fill and then**_

_**The wolf cleans up the mess...**_

After Sam's wrung a screaming climax out of you and finished himself as well, you both collapse to the bed for a long time, panting wildly and still plastered together with Sam draped halfway over you; your brother's weight pressing you down, grounding and protective and wonderful. Finally, though, you manage to fight the pleasure-liquified state of your muscles long enough to lift your face out of the pillow. "Jesus, that was a good one." you moan, dragging leaden arms under yourself and pushing up, stretching like a cat and yawning lazily. There's a low rumbling sound from Sam as his arm is dislodged from your waist, then one of his massive paws splays out on your back, flattening over sweat-tacky skin.

"Where you think you're goin'?" he mumbles into the sheets.

You snort softly. "Gotta clean up your mess, baby bro." you remind him, slipping easily out of the submissiveness of Sam's lover and back into the role of older brother. You haul yourself out of bed with some reluctance, forsaking the protective warmth of Sam's arms for rough denim and chilly night air. Shivering a little, you make your way to the bathroom and wash the blood off your chest before you pull your shirt back on; then, you return to the bedroom, and set about making sure there's no evidence of you and Sammy left behind.

Once Sam has shifted his bulk off the bed, the sheets get stripped off and dumped in a pile on the floor; Christine's remaining clothes join them. You make a quick trip down to the kitchen for some flammable cleaning fluid, then splash it around over the heap of fabric and the bed itself, as well as the mangled heap of blood and bone that's left of Christine herself. You back up to the doorway, Sammy pressing up warm and certain behind you as you look up at him with a smile.

"Ready, Sammy-boy?"

He grins back at you. "Sure, Dean. I wanna go get something to eat anyway, worked up a Hell of an appetite tonight."

You chuckle softly as you follow him down the stairs, trickling a line of cleaner along beside you as you go, making sure it's a continuous trail. Once you get to the bottom, you light and drop a match on the end of the line of cleaner before you move to the front door and follow Sam back out into the night.

_**The lion's outside of your door**_

_**The wolf's in your bed...**_

As you drive away into the night, _Highway to Hell_ blaring on Baby's tape deck and Sammy grinning in the seat beside you, you catch a glimpse of the rising flames behind you in the rearview mirror. It's just a flash, though, before you turn a corner and the house is lost to view; it doesn't bother you. All you've ever really cared about in the world is right here with you, your Baby purring all around and Sam gazing at you with bright eyes and a wicked grin, happy and sated and coiled into the passenger seat like some deadly predator just-fed and languid.

You drive off into the night, the center of your world right beside you, and you don't look back again.

_**The lion's outside of your door**_

_**The wolf's in your bed...**_

...

...

_A.N.4: So. That happened. Where's the Nostalgia Critic to push his 'Be Disturbed' button when you need him? LOL. Anyway, since this is kind of a nebulous S1 or S2... oh God... I'm actually considering doing a Wincestiel sequel, where Cas thinks Dean's fixed since he undid the damage Hell caused - only to find out Sam and Dean are a little more broken than he thought. Anyone interested in reading that? (Don't worry about being ashamed for wanting to read it. I'm horrified with myself for wanting to write it.) Either way, feel free to drop me a line and tell me you share my sick kinks - or that I made you toss your cookies and gave you a week's worth of nightmares, either way. (And just to be clear, if I wrote the sequel, Cas wouldn't die. Wish he was dead, maybe - but nah, I'm sure SAm and Dean could make him enjoy it... OH JESUS, did I just write that? What the HELL is wrong with me? This is why I shouldn't write Author's Notes at three in the morning!)_


End file.
